


Cicatrix

by bug_from_space



Series: lac·er·a·tion [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: ... - Freeform, ... ish., Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hiding, Hospitalization, Hospitals, I'm Sorry, Insanity, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, getting out of the hospital, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 06:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18138893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bug_from_space/pseuds/bug_from_space
Summary: cic·a·trix (n.)/ˈsikəˌtriks/the scar of a healed wound.It's been a year, and Tim Drake is still alive-- it's been a year, but he's finally free.





	Cicatrix

**Author's Note:**

> ... My deepest apologies to DestielHasThePhoneBox, and Lovelylilgalaxy who commented on Keloid with the hopes of a recovery fic.... be careful what you wish for??? 
> 
> At any rate, this is the end! The last o the three parts, and Tim getting out of the hospital and returning home. I strongly suggest you read Fistula and Keloid before this, otherwise some of the buildup doesn't make sense. 
> 
> I hope you like it...?

It had been three-hundred days, and Tim Drake was still alive. He doubts how much of Tim remains, but he’s alive. He can feel the cool floor of the hospital, and the fluorescent lights that seemed to invade, and infect everything, even his dreams. (Running, endless running away from the laughter that haunted him and echoed through the vents.) It’s the only assurance he has.

J.J was louder now. A near constant, but, Tim thought, tapping out an SOS (dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot, repeat, repeat) in morse code on his leg, it was easier to deal with him now. Easier to ignore him, and sometimes to respond and make him quiet. He could feel the spectre’s annoyance, and he paused in the next S, making an SOI (dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot. Fault in code, error, please restart) instead. The rhythm had become comforting, a familiar beat. He had known morse code since month four, when Barbara had brought him a book on it, and a copy of the Great Gatsby translated into it. And it had become a habit to type out the familiar beat.

Repeating the SOS he, leaned back against the wall. The doctors would be there any minute to deposit the pills he got twice a day, and had gotten twice a day for ten months. They had upped the dose a three months ago, after an unfortunate incident after what had been a good period. A minute later, there was the familiar rap at the door, before the nurse gave him the small cup filled with the familiar medication (anti-psychotics, antidepressants, and-anxiety, everything to keep him from trying to claw his skin off in a fit of J.J induced anguish). Swallowing the pills under her watch, he observed as she left the room, to go to whoever the next name on her list was. Because that’s what they were; numbers, not people. A list of disorders, room numbers, but never people, never human.

* * *

It had been three-hundred twelve days, and Tim Drake was still alive. Dick had just left, after another unsuccessful attempt to talk to his baby brother, and Barbara would be there in a few days, another two books brought with her. He sighed, staring up at the tiled ceiling, J.J. pushing himself into the forefront of Tim’s mind, with, Tim thought amused, a pout at what had become of Tim in the last few weeks; apathy having made its home in Tim’s mind, and making him less fun to poke.

“You aren’t any more fun.” J.J stated simply, and Tim hummed his assent.  
“But you’re not going anywhere. You can’t can you, we’re stuck together.” Tim imagined J.J was pouting now, the silence carrying an air of annoyance. Secretly, Tim thought that perhaps that had simply mean that the Joker had won, even beyond the grave he was fucking things up. (If Tim was honest, if only to himself, he had always known that the Joker would win. He was far too broken to fix himself.)

* * *

It had been three-hundred seventeen days, and Tim Drake was still alive. Today, he noted, the doctors had lowered his dose again, back to what it had been in months seven, that was nice, not surprising, but nice. He considered it for a minute, (the ice cover of apathy was breaking apart. SOS, help needed. SOS, crisis imminent), it meant he could get out soon. If he played his cards well he would be able to get out by the time the year was up. J.J. seeming interested by the thoughts that had begun to stir, a the ghost of his grin beginning to stretch across Tim’s mouth. They would be going home, finally. He just had to play is cards right.

* * *

It had been three-hundred twenty-three days, and Tim Drake was still alive. He was allowed outside now, unsupervised, so long as he kept to the grounds that were allowed. The day was hot, summer had come and, Tim thought, it had been more than three seasons that he had spent in that hospital. It had been September, he remembered, the fourth of September. Now it was July 18; fall, winter, spring, most of summer... all had passed him by in a hazy blur. 

Now though, Tim thought, he was getting better (“At what? You aren’t better. You’re just a better mimic now, talented at pretending to be normal.”). It was bound to happen eventually, he thought, flipping to the next page in Italian copy of 1984 as he walked. The stay at the hospital had been for the best, but it was never going to be _permanent_. He pretends not to hear J.J..

“Do you really think that? This was going to be our new home, you must know that, with how smart we are.”

“You aren’t anything, just a figment of me.” (A truth, it has to be the truth. He’s the corruption in the code. Tim has to think he’s still the dominant person in his own head.)

“Don’t be naive, you have to know the truth. Why do you think Da-Bruce never visits?” (Guiltguiltuilt… computer reboot, reprocessing information… shameshameshame.) Tim begins tapping out the SOS on his hip as he walks.

* * *

It had been three-hundred thirty-seven days, and Tim Drake was still alive. Of course, alive is a relative term. He’s Tim, and he’s breathing, and his heart’s still racing, but he’d stopped being only Tim when he was thirteen and became Robin ( It’s easier to think that, it’s not the whole truth, but an easy thing to pinpoint. He had never been the important part of his identity, even before Robin. When he was young he was the Drake heir, son of Jack and Janet Drake, then he was Robin, and then Joker Junior (J.J.J.J.J.J.J.J), before finally morphing into the other adopted Wayne child, the one who went insane). 

Now he thought, he was equal parts Tim, and equal parts J.J.. (Some monsters are born, and some monsters are created. “Was I born or created?” asks Tim. _Some monsters are born, and some monsters are created. “Was I born or created?” asks J.J.. **Was I born or created? Was I born or created?**_ ). No one knew though, everyone thought he was getting better, he thought, a smirk crossing his features. Even the Doctors had brought down his medication doses again, even they didn’t know better. (He feels like he’s going insane. (“It’s too late for that.” and the laughter rings in his ears like drums.) He wants to curl up in a ball and yell until his throat is raw and the laughter is silenced. But he can’t, he has to make it out, and he’s _doing so much better._ Everybody says so.)

* * *

It had been three-hundred fifty-two days, and Tim Drake was still alive. “How are you today, Tim?” Doctor Sharrow asked. The question mattered less now then when he had first come, now he was capable of telling her what sort of day it was (badbadbad, they were always bad nowadays, but that meant he wouldn’t get out and he had two weeks until the self imposed deadline.) He smiles-- not too wide, and not manic at all.

“Today’s good. I don’t remember the last time I felt so close to normal.” It’s a lie. He knows exactly when. It had been March 25th, because the next day it all went wrong and he never made it that close again. Doctor Sharrow smiled at the response. His replies were full sentences, articulate _ ~~, and fake~~_.

“You’ve made a lot of progress in the last month and a half, I’m impressed, I think you’ll be ready to go in a few weeks if you continue like this.” She continued, tapping her pen on her clipboard contemplatively. “I think another two or three sessions will be good, and then you can go home. Truly though, it’s an admirable recovery.” Tim smiled at the praise like he should, and nodded, picking at the loose thread of his red sweater absentmindedly, like any traumatized, but recovering teenager would.

“I can’t wait. I miss... “he trails off for a few seconds, trying to figure out what word for them, a true falter in the facade. “My family. I miss my family.” And behind the words she didn’t notice the snake like glimmer as he puts back up the shield. (SOS, danger. SOS crisis imminent. SOS, please redirect all efforts to stopping the inevitable crash. SOS.)

* * *

It had been three-hundred fifty-seven days, and Tim Drake was still alive. He tossed and turned in the narrow bed, one arm reaching under the pillow to flip it, and bunch it under his head, the sound of laughter echoing in his ears as he did. . (SOS, crisis imminent. SOS, please send help.) All he had to do was hold it together for eight more days, and then he’d be home, and free, only eight more days. Twisting again to face the wall, he settled, shutting his eyes and started to count backwards from five-hundred in an attempt to fall asleep. (“You’ve made it so far, wouldn’t it be a shame to fail now?” Tim knows if he doesn’t make it now he’ll never get out. J.J. will consume him and he’ll be lost to the world.) It was only eight more days.

* * *

It had been three-hundred sixty-three days, and Tim Drake was still alive. Today he found himself sitting across from Doctor Sharrow, looking for all anyone would notice, sixteen (he felt so much older than sixteen). “How are you today?” 

“I’m good. I’m really, really good.” Tim replies, and for the first time since he decided to pretend to everyone that he was okay, he truly believed it. Of course, it wasn’t because J.J was gone, or because he felt like Tim, but because this was the last meeting he would ever have with Doctor Sharrow. He had managed to make it all the way. He would be free. 

(“As long as you don’t fuck it up right now.” J.J. whispers treacherously. He won’t. He’s perfected the mask of sanity.)

* * *

It had been three-hundred sixty-five days, and Tim Drake was still _alive_. It was September fourth, and somewhere within the stone confines of the hospital, a year had passed. Tim looks at the room that had been his for the last year, and he thinks, it doesn’t look like he ever spent any time there at all. His books were packed in a bag he held, and the bed was made (not washed, they would do that in the evening after he had left).

He was alive, he had made it out alive. “Don’t be silly, you never survived at all.” J.J. says, and for a minute Tim thinks he’s right. He didn’t survive, not wholly. He’s not purely Tim anymore. It’s all settled into place, but it settled _wrong_. (We all know what’s going to happen. (SOS, collision in 3...2...1…) ~~Everybody~~ Nobody can see it coming).

With a final look at the room, he turned his back on the room, letting the door close behind him with a final click. Inhaling, he stepped forward towards the front door of the hospital where Alfred is waiting to pick him up. (It’d be so cinematic if it were a movie scene. The pale grey walls, and the floor made up of good intention, as he walked the long hallway to the end of the road where the grass was supposed to be greener but never would be. Some flashbacks to the past year scattered as he made his way down the hall.) 

His clothes were new, a pair of jeans, and a dark blue shirt, even the converse were different. Like he was walking out of the monochrome as a new and improved version of Tim Drake. He wasn’t, but everyone so desperately wanted him to be. When he sees Alfred he smiles, a wide bright thing without any of the madness from the Joker and gives him a hug. It’s the best he can do, and it’s still just a facade. (“Are you ready to pay the debt collector?” J.J. asks, and Tim doesn’t want to answer. It’s not like they don't both know the answer.)

It’s been a year and Tim Drake is home.

* * *

It’s been four-hundred six days since everything came crashing down, and three-hundred eighty-four days since he killed the Joker (“You killed the Joker. You killed them, they cared-- they loved you. Can you say the same about Bruce?”). Once he closes the door to his room, he slides down the wood, collapsing in shuddering sobs. Silent tears streaming down his face as he clutches at his hair, and simply listens to J.J. “Guess who’s lonely and pathetic?”

“Me… us. Us. You are me, and I’m you.” It's the first time he’s made the admission, and he can feel J.J’s shock, and he wants to think the submission will have made things easier, but it hasn’t. He’s breaking down just inside his room, fifteen days after being released from the hospital, for recovering from his bout of insanity; but he’s still just as mad, and he knows it. He lets out another involuntary shudder, and a choked-back sob slips out. 

What could be three minutes, or two hours later, he stops. Breathing in, an out. A simple exercise Doctor Sharrow had taught him. He’s broken, he’s irreparably fractured, and no one ever has to know. No one’s guessed yet. They’re too happy he’s home. (That’s not entirely true. Barbara, Dick, and Alfred are happy he’s home. Dick seems particularly prone to sudden hugs since he got Tim back. But Bruce is staying away. Like he’s afraid-- like he’s ashamed of Tim, almost like he knows better.)

“We are. We’re _stuck together._ ” J.J. says throwing Tim’s words from month ago back at him, and for the first time, Tim knows he hasn't won, or lost. There was no winning. The Joker was dead, and he was out, but he wasn’t okay. Everybody lost. He couldn't even figure out what the voice in his head wanted.

When he’s calm he moves to his bed (more comfortable than anything at the hospital. It’s a funny observation to make. Such a trivial detail, unimportant to anything), and starts laughing, it’s a desperate thing, and he presses his face into the pillow to muffle the sound, as he gets more frantic, and he can’t stop. (It’s somewhere between ten minutes and an eternity later when he falls asleep, face pressed into the pillow to make sure no one could hear him. Distantly he thinks he misses the sedatives from the hospital. He misses the quick and easy oblivion.) “Can you pay the debt collector?” (SOS SOS SOS SOS, help needed. Help needed. Fault in code detected, fault in code located everywhere. SOS SOS SOS. (No help is coming.))

* * *

It’s been three-hundred eighty-one days and Tim Drake tells himself he’s alive.  
It’s been three-hundred eighty-nine days days and Tim Drake pretends to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo.... I'm sorry? (I'm not really, I feel like I should be.) But yeah, I hope you enjoyed lac·er·a·tion. Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think!


End file.
